


How Far I'll Go

by Canary (MirrorLady)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), But actually Shiro needs to love all his children, Gay Keith (Voltron), God I hate tagging, Hanahaki Disease, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm so sorry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance (Voltron)-centric, Lance Needs a Hug, Lance has no idea Keith loves him, Lance is an idiot, Lance is dying, Lance is in over his head, Lance is so sad, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Pretty Obvious Character death, References to Depression, References to Illness, References to Moana, References to Sex, Sad Ending, Selfish Lance, Space Dad Shiro (Voltron), This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, What Have I Done, Why Did I Write This?, i love him though, lance dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-28 23:39:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13282326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorLady/pseuds/Canary
Summary: This was his choice. He wasn’t saying anything to anybody. After all, he wasn’t dying as a hero, but his death would be so fucking poetic. A flower in his chest, and in the end, it wouldn’t be a bullet that brought down Voltron’s weak link.Nah. Fate decreed it would be a flower. And Lance laughed at the irony of it.(Or the Hanahaki fic I wrote. I'm so sorry.)





	How Far I'll Go

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, me trying to write a hanahaki fic as an apology for not updating. Heh. Enjoy, and check the bottom notes for...more notes?

_You call me on the telephone, you feel so far away_  
_You tell me to come over,_ there's _some games you want to play_  
_I'm walking to your house, nobody's home_  
_Just me and you and you and me alone_

Keith smiled slyly at Lance, to which Lance looked away, butterflies fluttering around his gut like nobody’s business. He knew what that signal meant. He knew he would be walking to Keith’s rooms later that night. He knew that he should tug his ear, to refuse, to say no, I can’t, we shouldn’t, we can’t. But Lance just gave a slight nod, that yes, he would come over later. He would. The butterflies viciously stung his stomach, making him think they were hornets instead.

  
As far as Legendary Defender went, the gig sucked. Drafty, empty (probably haunted) halls, horrid training sessions which were abusive or a violation of privacy (or both), and the terrible food. Every week went with at least three battles, a planet to evacuate, weird food to consume, aliens to charm or beat up.

  
Bases to destroy, places to evacuate, Lion’s to clean, bonding to do- it was becoming an endless, boring cycle that one could only escape from in sleep (and who is he kidding? Allura is really trigger happy when it comes to waking up the paladins in the middle of the ‘night’). Lance was so tired of it all, tired of listening to the same old music, looking at his family on his phone with longing, to be so sick all the time. His initial exuberance at this superhero thing wore away like the paint on the walls.

  
No one ever told you that being a superhero meant winning and losing painfully. No one ever told him that being the good guys was boring, was repetitive, or that he would have to study shit just to not feel bored.  
But perhaps, the worst of the worst was the sex-life. Or rather, the very clear lack thereof.

  
Lance, as much ridicule and teasing he has undergone about his flirting techniques, has to admit he’s the farthest thing from a virgin. Even in Garrison, he never cared who his date was, or what they had in their pants, so long as they gave him a good time. And Lance isn’t embarrassed to admit that his weird ethnicity of Cuban-Italian-Mesoamerican has given him notable features.He’s inherited the rare blue eyes, girlish prettiness, and the bean-pole aesthetic, as well as coffee/olive skin, the long fingers, and a killer combo of faint freckles and dimples. Coupled with his noticeably high libido, he might as well advertise that he’s hooker by stamping it on his face. He doesn’t mind though. As Moana’s grandmother once said, _once you know what you like, well there you are._

  
And Grandma Tala _**never, ever lied.**_

  
So when one argument with Keith resulted as an explosion of hormones and sexual frustration, Lance had jumped at the chance to have _any_ sort of relationship with this beautiful boy who had literally captivated him from his Garrison days. Hell, he’d go as far as to say that _Keith_ was the reason Lance realised he was bi! And he knows that he’s digging his own grave at this point, with the way he stares at Keith’s soft expression when he’s asleep on the living room couch. He knows that he doesn’t like Keith platonically at all. This is a full homo zone.

  
But Lance couldn’t give a shit about what anyone said. Confess? Ha! Keith would run from him faster than when they were running from the Galra! He planned to take this to his grave. And with the way things were going, that thought was probably cementing itself into a reality.

  
Keith doesn’t love him, Keith _doesn’t even like him._

  
But Lance was in love with him, hopelessly so.

  
For once, he understood the term heartbroken. He never really got it before. But there had to be no greater agony than your heart breaking into bits and pieces, slowly and agonisingly. He was in love, but it hurt so much. And he was so tempted to dwell in self-pity. He wanted to sob the flower in his chest away.

  
He brushed these thoughts away with a grim smile, staring at the wall, all alone in his room. In his hand held a clenched acacia petal. He stared at it and leaned into the wall. What else was he supposed to do?

  
This was his choice. He wasn’t saying anything to anybody. After all, he wasn’t dying as a hero, but his death would be so fucking poetic. A flower in his chest, and in the end, it wouldn’t be a bullet that brought down Voltron’s weak link.

  
Nah. Fate decreed it would be a flower. And Lance laughed at the irony of it.

 

 

 _We're just playing hide and seek_  
_It's getting hard to breathe under the sheets with you_

  
Keith didn’t understand why Lance hadn’t shown up. It was given. How had the dumbass forgotten? Knowing Lance, he probably got confused. Keith fumed, contemplating giving up for the night and confronting Lance tomorrow.

  
He heard the sudden thuds of footsteps, though, and Lance ran in, flushed. He looked at Lance, waiting for an apology; he’d been waiting for nearly an hour. Lance needed to understand that his actions affected others as well, and not just in this situation. Lance though, offered none. His face was oddly blank, with no comments on Keith waiting for him like an idiot. Keith was about to awkwardly attempt to ask about his expression, but Lance gave a cheeky smile, and Keith gave up on the notion.

  
Keith wondered if he should push for an apology or dive in and help Lance undress. He chose the latter. Pale arms undid zippers and buttons. Tan skin against grey-white sheets. And Keith pressed lips to Lance’s spine, marvelling at the small freckles. Lance shuddered, and Keith smirked into his skin.

  
As much as they teased him about his love for self-care and makeup, Lance’s skin was really really soft. And Keith had never seen him so much as have a blackhead, so he assumed the face masks worked. Keith liked how Lance felt next to him, even if Lance was asleep and unaware.

  
_**Lance...was a puzzle. Bright and painful, soft and comforting. Sharp edges and soft skin. How did he exist?** _

  
Keith was sure Lance was a cryptid. But the type confused him. Mermaid? Lance’s lean physique suggested that he belonged in the water, and Lance would easily look just as Lance-like with a tail. Keith sighed, and pressed his cheek against Lance’s cool skin, frowning at how thin he was. He stared at the constellations on his ceiling. Bioluminescent lanterns and stickers imitated the constellations of his childhood.What would younger-Keith think of where he was now? In space? Half-alien? Keith closed his eyes and breathed in Lance’s heady scent. He wanted to stay like this forever.

 

  
_I wish I had monopoly over your mind_  
_I wish I didn't care all the time_

 _I_ don't want to play no _games_  
_I'm tired of always chasing, chasing after you_

Part of Lance knows that he is never going to be what they want from him. Because what they all want from him is Keith. And Lance was not Keith, no matter how he tried. So he’s done, trying to be what he never was. He has a (un)healthy appreciation for Keith these days, but he acts like…himself. It’s a lot more relieving than he thought it would be. But, for some inexplicable reason, it makes it way too easy to wallow in self-pity.

  
Prolonged exposure to the same six people, with the rare mix with extraterrestrials, morphed Lance’s habits unrecognisably. It was the little things, like when Lance would chat up with Pidge about their latest improvement to Rover II and actually understand the gimmicks and gizmos and the functions. Sure, they’re almost always with Matt, who is almost always cracking memes and slightly insulting him, but Pidge and Matt were a pretty package deal. He liked both enough to spend time with and learn from. He could hotwire a spaceship now, and he feels rather proud of it. Would his mother share this opinion? Probably not.

  
He’s really, really going to miss the Holt siblings. He’s even going to miss the fact that he’s never going to meet the legendary Samuel Holt. But death, much like time and the tide, stops for no one. Much less Lance.

  
Hunk and Lance have grown together and apart, in a medley of ways, and Lance can attest to it. Their conversations are chockful with inside jokes and private references, and Lance spends a lot of time hanging with Hunk, casually teasing and joking. It’s how they’ve always been, but the truth is, they’d both die for each other. But they’ve also grown distant, when Pidge and Hunk build a new oven without Lance or when Hunk cooks. Lance doesn't blame him though; he rarely contributes anything valuable other than loose conversation. And Lance is fine with what they are now. He has to be. It’s not like he has enough time left to change anything at all.

  
He wants to hug Hunk. He wanted to finally show him Varadero, how the water gleamed and rippled in the sunlight. He wanted to surf with him, to finally see who would win. But it was only a dream now.

  
Allura knows that he’s less than sincere about his flirting; she’s beautiful, but as cheesy as it sounds, not as beautiful as Keith. Lord, why did everything have to begin and end with Keith? He’s so sick and tired of losing, losing his life, love, and everything else.

  
He’s _**fucking** fabulous._

  
He’s fine, he’s fine with this pseudo-family closeness with his beloved Garrison trio. He’s fucking Keith, he quasi-flirts with Allura, and knows he’s practically a son to Coran. And while he’s the one who coined the beloved term Space Dad™, Shiro, in the most respectful way, is more of a neglectful dad who never sees him based on his own merit. He’s the assistant, the help, the disposable. He’s used to being the one who is left behind, the one who's the shitty comic relief in this intergalactic romcom. He never thought he’d be the one to leave, and he has to admit that the thought isn’t as pleasant as he once imagined it to be.

  
But he’s relieved now. Shiro won't have to deal with his attention-seeking ways anymore. The way this is going, he’d be dead in a few months, if not weeks. And all he sees are petals in his dreams, coupled with the usual family dreams, where he runs into his Mama’s arms and never, ever, has to let go. He usually wakes up around the time his brain realises that Mama’s signature perfume isn’t there, and his brain jumps and wakes him up, longing for a whiff of rose flowers and cigarette smoke. Lance shudders into his sheets, ignoring the way tears threaten to spill onto his pillow. He’s not the prettiest crier.

  
_The Show must go on_  
_The Show must go on_  
_Inside my heart is breaking_  
_My makeup may be flaking_  
_But my smile, still, stays on_

  
The logical, so-called unselfish thing to do would be to tell someone that every morning he coughs petals, who are stained on the edges with blood and gunk. Then the team could scour the universe for a new red paladin who wasn’t, hopefully as useless as the last. He could see the way Allura would drip with fake empathy while giddily finding a new, more focused person who would lead Voltron to new heights. He could see how Shiro would secretly smile at the end of one living distraction. Keith would mourn his body (and the thought brings a whole other burst of bitterness), Hunk and Coran his soul, and Pidge his role. Matt would miss the memes. Maybe.

  
(He pretends that this chain of thought was far more comforting than it actually was. Because if he pretends they don’t care, it will be so much easier to leave them all behind. He can’t pretend that they won't smile when he’s gone, because he’ll cry otherwise.)

  
He wants to cry into his Mama’s shoulder, because goddammit, it’s dawning on him that he’s dying. That he’s going to be a corpse in short span of time. It brings on a whole load of stained petals, softly hitting his skin and blistering as they touched. And in the middle of this, of course, he can’t help but be a little selfish. He monopolises everyone’s attention. He dramatises every little cut and bruise. They can stand to look at his pathetic self for a little while more, before he ends up choking on the beautiful acacia blossoming in his throat. He can feel the vines tighten around his lungs as he sneaks glances at the love of his life. He hopes the flower is pretty; it’s all the best and worst parts of him, after all.

  
He’s still sleeping with him. Which is a whole other emotional mess for him to ignore, because he’s silently giggling, albeit a bit hysterically, because Keith is banging a corpse. A walking corpse. And dammit, if Lance wasn’t a little vindictive. He was in lurv with this boy, but he was still ready to beat the crap out of him. He was ready to be the one Keith **never** forgot. He was being cruel; it’s not Keith’s fault that he’s so unlovable. Keith deserves better, sure, but that selfish part (yeah that one) wants Keith to cry over his corpse, even if it’s just about the sex. He’ll take what he can get. He never said he was a saint.

  
He’s still avidly applying makeup and face masks, hoping to disguise dark circles and broken capillaries. But bruised lips and dead eyes are harder, and Lance spends more time in his room, playing with the Earth hologram, seeing if he can make to Earth before he passes. He knows logistically, even with Red, it’s impossible, but it’s fun to imagine. Varadero seems to fade before his eyes in his dreams, while his eyes reflect the truth about him. He’s surprised no one’s noticed, but would rather that they don't. It’s too hard already to put his thoughts on paper, for when he’s gone. He’d rather not tip-toe around them as he breathes his last.

  
He’s surprisingly okay, though, as the days go on, as the idea of his demise slowly becomes desensitized. It goes from _**I’M DYING GODDAMIT!**_ to _I’m dying_. And Lance knew that in the little time he had left, he was going to shine. Go supernova, if you will.

 _I don't give a fuck about you_ anyways  
_Whoever said I gave a shit 'bout you?_  
_You never share your toys or communicate_  
_I guess I'm just a play date to you_

  
He takes daring shots in battle, he coughs up more and more flowers, now a mixed bouquet as Keith yells at him for his recklessness, laughing hysterically as the date is approaching. On that day, he wakes up sore and his lungs battered. He speaks even though thorns are digging into his vocal cords. He makes sure to be extra annoying prior to the battle, like it’s his fucking purpose in life. He makes them all yell at him for his idiocy, as he suddenly takes an entire ion cannon meant for the yellow lion, and screams as the laser tears into him. Red is falling, he’s apologising for being a failure as she goes offline due to the excess damage.

  
Red is wrecked, his body is hurtling through the front, tearing through the metal and glass and his armour, and into space, and he can’t help but laugh. Red’s still in his head, but he’s too tired to care. Let him reminisce. It’s going to be the last time, after all. God, he’s going to miss this. He’s going to regret falling in love, going to regret ever sneaking out that night…but he really doesn’t. Heroes die early or end up becoming villains. Isn’t that what happened to Zarkon?

  
He’s not narcissistic as to call himself a hero, God no. He’s just annoying. He’s selfish as fuck, he won't lie. He’s a really bad person; he should tell Keith, he should tell them all. He should say he loves them all, very, very much. But Lance was never sappy, always too unobservant. It’s too late.

Lance glances above, the stars shining, the planets around the battle area like dark behemoths. He wishes, so hard, that it didn't happen to be like this. He wishes the coughing would stop, that his helmet was still on (it had cracked a long time ago). There’s no wind in space, no sound…so fucking empty.

  
He despises this place. Hell, he’s ready to move on, to die if it means he’ll never see another nebula again.

  
He can’t hear anything. Everything is fading to a dull black, as Lance floats in space. He is aware that the battle is over, the Galra ships aren’t there anymore. And even if they were, it wasn’t his concern anymore, was it? He coughs, as his lungs are squeezed and pricked by thorns and leaves, as he closes his eyes, fluttering them shut. A huge white acacia blooms out of his open mouth.

  
The body of Lance McClain floats in space, flower blooming out of his mouth. The stars are behind him, his teammates screaming with no sound. It feels like a grisly nightmare.

  
_You know I give a fuck about you every day_  
_Guess it's time that I tell you the truth_  
_If I share my toys, will you let me stay?_  
_Don't want to leave this_ playdate _with you_

**Author's Note:**

> As you can probably see, I have not updated in a while. 
> 
> Mainly because my high school strives to be like college, trying to kill us poor freshmen. And well, high school you are succeeding. 
> 
> I'm sorry. Really am. 
> 
> In the last few months, I have dealt with depression, anxiety, and a newfound realisation that I am graysexual.
> 
> So I'm trying to not have an existential crisis, and that's going as well as it sounds.
> 
> So, enough about me, and more about the fic!
> 
> Basically, Lance is bad at feelings and doesn't tell Keith that he's in love with him or anyone else, and by the time the flower blooms, he's already dead.
> 
> The title is obviously a Moana Reference, and symbolic of how far Lance went.
> 
> I swear I'm not an evil person to do this to Lance. Also, I wish this was longer.
> 
> That's about it. In the future, I shall try to update more. I hope you enjoyed this, and please leave a comment. On anything. I need feedback to improve, and kudos make me happy, etc.
> 
> 2018 is going to be awesome! This is Canary, signing off.


End file.
